A let-down; bland stock-anime art, paired with ren-fairy dialogue. But enough inspiration from the original film remains to buoy this novel to “acceptable” level; readers who can tolerate the flaws of Eragon or Castle Waiting may even be able to enjoy this book.

For its opening pages, the plot hews oddly close to the film: orphaned Gelfling preteens (the boy timid, the girl spunky) find each other in the wake of Garthim attacks, and set out on a quest.

The bulk of the book, however, is taken up by dull talk and aimless fanservice; a council of Gelfling elders endlessly postures while the Skeksis cackle in their castle, but neither party commits to much action. It’s appropriate that the heros find themselves trapped in a hole with nowhere to go and little to do during most of the story.

An action scene at the end revives things somewhat, but even those panels are drawn as emotionlessly as the boring council debates. By the end, there are no surprises; and even though the world is as magical as you remember it to be in the movie, it’s become harder to care about it. The spark is there, but the flames simply haven’t caught yet.

Yes, yes, the vowel-heavy title of this series is like nails on a chalkboard; and the blue hero has a strangely retro 80's Halo-Jones sort of look. But if you can get past that, there's a fairly cute, surprisingly human story: a knowing slant on the "small-town kid comes to LA with big dreams" archetype.
The art is merely serviceable, but the dialogue is well-chosen enough to make up for it. The main character -- I can't bear to even type his name -- struggles to make a name for himself and find success, despite not being totally sure that he knows what it is he wants. It's impossible not to relate; and before long, it feels like you're reading a book written about your own life.

Wordy and self-indulgent and not at all fun, "My Inner Bimbo" is a book I got for free and then couldn't give away. I suppose it's meant to be a journey into the unconscious ambivalence of a gross old man who's discovering his own sympathy with the slutty twits whom he'd always objectified. The protagonist -- if you can call him that -- is gripped by the sort of introspection normally more at home in LiveJournals: he never successfully communicates the reasons for his weary sadness, but it certainly isn't for lack of trying.
I don't hate reading, even dense, demanding reading such as you'll find here; but like baking a cake, if you don't get some kind of reward for your effort, you're bound to feel a little gypped. Skip the writing, you won't miss a thing.
The art's fairly explicit, but only erotic in an Isn't-Sex-Miserable sort of way. The inexhaustible supply of T&A is instantly bland, and becomes downright distasteful when coupled with the withered flesh and inexplicable melancholy of the main character.
Whee.